


The Real in Funereal

by lowflyingfruit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, past Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowflyingfruit/pseuds/lowflyingfruit
Summary: Batman is dead. So is Bruce Wayne. And the Bat-family is struggling to cope, both publicly and privately.But crime in Gotham waits for no Bat, and like it or not, new grievances and old, the family must pick themselves up. Gotham needs its defenders, before their grief tears them apart. (Battle for the Cowl AU)





	1. Worst News

**Author's Note:**

> This fic does deal extensively with a character death. Mind the tag. In terms of chapter-specific warnings, this chapter contains reference to suicidal ideation.

He could almost be asleep, Dick thought. Any minute now Bruce could sit up and ask why he was in the Batcave and not the Watchtower, or what happened to Darkseid, or even what Dick was doing hovering by his bedside instead of writing his post-patrol reports.

Almost.

His chest was too still. There were scorch marks all over Batman's chestplate, leading to a burnt hole through both the armour and the flesh beneath. Superman had laid him down gently on the gurney as he said to Dick, quietly, "I'm so sorry."

“How?” Dick asked, equally quiet.

“Darkseid. It was important. He couldn’t have died better.”

Dick took a deep breath. “Overachiever to the end. He’d be happy about it, wherever he is now.” _If he was ever happy about anything._ Dick sometimes doubted it. Whenever he did, he hoped that he was wrong.

“Do you want me to stay?”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bruce’s corpse. “No,” he said. “They should hear it from me. I think most of us will need to be here by ourselves for a bit. I couldn’t bear Alfred making himself get up to cook for well-wishers.” Alfred would cook anyway, it helped him cope, but if there were guests Alfred wouldn’t let himself put dinner on the table even a little bit late.

Superman put a heavy hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I’ll call again later. We - the Justice League - want to pay our respects too.”

“I understand.”

The decisions to be made were already swirling around the edges of his mind. Dick couldn’t help it; it was who he was. Who Bruce had done more than any other person in training him to be. There would have to be a private funeral. And a public lie, since Bruce Wayne and Batman could not die simultaneously. Something would have to be done about his assets. No doubt he had a will, for both his personas. Dick could handle this -

\- but if he got up and handled it now, he’d be giving up his own chance to grieve properly. Getting up to take care of all the details right now, shutting away his feelings, was what Bruce would do - would have done. Dick had never liked that about him. Just because Bruce was dead didn't mean Dick was going to start pretending he was, _had been_ , perfect.

He could handle things in another minute.

He didn’t even hear Superman leave.

Just a minute, he just wanted a minute. A minute without anyone else to worry about, just him and Bruce. “You jackass,” Dick said to the corpse, after thirty agonising seconds of silence. “How am I going to tell Alfred that you’re dead? He’s going to scrub every inch of the house and make enough food for an army. What about Tim? What about Damian? Oh, who am I kidding, you probably wrote a script.”

Dick knew where he’d keep it, too. Where he’d keep everything to be opened in the event of his death.

"If you did write one, I'm not using it," he added. "You went and got yourself killed, and I found out first, so I get to decide how to break the news. You can't make me do anything different."

If there were any words Dick could say that could rouse Bruce to some sort of action, "you can't make me" were those words. Defiance always got something from him. Yet the body remained still. It was far better proof than the burnt hole in his chest that Bruce wasn't there anymore. Not sleeping, not pining for the fjords, dead. Gone.

Maybe now Bruce could finally get some rest.

"Okay, you win. You're dead. I get it. I'm not angry. We both knew you didn't expect to make it to fifty." They'd never discussed it, not him, not Bruce, and not Alfred, but Dick was reasonably sure that on the day his parents' lines had snapped and Bruce had come to comfort him, Bruce had neither expected nor wanted to live to  _thirty_. Later, when Bruce had passed thirty and was approaching forty and didn't seem to object to the idea, he and Dick had both known that it was still likely that Bruce would discover he was slowing down too much to be Batman about the same time a armour-piercing round hit his chest.

Dick had never harboured any illusions that Bruce was immortal. Not after what happened to his mom and dad. Not for a second. As soon as he put on the Robin costume, he had known that if he lived, he would eventually face one of three scenarios: watching Bruce die in person, having Bruce's body brought back to him, or hearing news of his death in battle from someone else. Sitting by Bruce’s bedside while he passed away peacefully of old age, in his sleep, had never been in the cards.

_Looks like it's door number two._

Was it any better than the other two scenarios? Dick didn't know and wouldn't care to test it even if such a thing was possible. This was bad enough, and his minute alone was almost up.

"Well, I think you had a good run," Dick said, forcing himself to stand. "You did good. I'm grateful, and I love you."

More proof Bruce was really gone: the corpse showed no trace of embarrassment at the blunt declaration.

"Goodbye, Bruce," he said.

 

\---

 

There were times when it was easy to see how wonderful, caring Alfred, who had devoted half his life to not-so-humble domesticity and raising a child as best he could, had in fact managed to raise Bruce Wayne, Human Ice Cube. When Dick gently woke him up from the chair where he was dozing and said "Alfred? Bad news," an expression of utter devastation crossed his face, hitting Dick like a punch to the sternum, and was shut away almost before Dick could properly register it.

"Where is he?" Alfred asked.

"Downstairs."

The famous stiff upper lip held all the way back to the Cave, and held even as Alfred saw his surrogate son's body. His hand shook as he smoothed Bruce's hair into slightly more neatness. "Judging by the injury, it would have been quick," Alfred said.

"Superman told me he was a hero."

"Yes," Alfred said, and his voice was shaking too, ever so slightly. "He certainly was that."

They stood there together in silence for a second, and then Dick said, "I'm going to wake Tim up now. Will you be all right?" He thought Alfred could use his minute of not handling things too, and like Dick, he wouldn't allow himself that luxury once Tim and Damian were awake and needing them.

Those shaking hands tugged a sheet over Bruce's chest, hiding the fatal wound. "I will be."

Dick headed back upstairs. Tim, now. There were no more people in the Manor than there had been the past two weeks, yet it felt emptier. When he reached Tim's room, he saw a light under the door, and sure enough, when he knocked, Tim's voice floated through. "Come in, Dick."

When Tim saw his face, he flinched back. In a flash of irritation Dick wondered when he wrote BRUCE IS DEAD on his forehead. "No," Tim said. "No, no, he can't be, no."

"I'm sorry, Tim."

"No," Tim said, tears running down his face. In a few quick steps Dick crossed to Tim's computer chair and wrapped his little brother in a hug. Tim was so distraught he didn't fight it, didn't even shift uncomfortably at the display of affection. He just rested his head on Dick's shoulder and kept crying silently.

After some time, maybe five minutes, Dick said, "He's downstairs, if you need to see him and say goodbye."

Tim pushed him away, disentangling his limbs from Dick's. "No," he said again, in a completely different tone. "It can't be. This has to be a trick of some kind."

Denial. Oh, no. If Dick had never believed in Bruce's immortality, Tim had always believed in Batman's. "That's why you should come down and see," Dick said, as carefully and kindly as he could. "It was quick. If he suffered, it wasn't for long. But he's dead, Tim. No tricks, no plans. This is for real. Bruce is dead."

A voice from the doorway said, "What do you mean that my father is dead?"

Oh,  _no_.

"He's not dead," Tim hissed at Damian.

Dick put out a hand, palm towards Tim's chest, to prevent him throwing himself at Damian. "No fighting," he said sternly. "Not tonight."

"You said my father is dead," Damian said. He sounded perplexed by the news. "Father is Batman. He cannot be dead."

Finally, something Tim and Damian could agree on. Only it was the worst possible thing for them to agree on that he could ever have imagined. 

"Damian, I'm so sorry. It's not a joke. Bruce was killed fighting against Darkseid. Superman brought his body back to the Cave, and Alfred's down there now."

Dick watched a series of emotions play out over Damian's face. First outright denial, the likes of which was affecting Tim, then worry, and then anger. "Why didn't you tell me?" he snarled at Dick.

"I have," Dick said, still holding out an arm to keep Tim back. He could feel Tim’s heartbeat pounding against his palm, but his little brother was thankfully quiet. He wanted to turn back to comfort him. He had to talk Damian down first.

"Last. I should have been the first to know, Grayson. He is _my_ father!” Damian’s voice pitched up on the final words, full of surprisingly childish fear and distress.

He couldn’t say that if Damian had been told before Tim, Tim wouldn’t get his chance to show vulnerability. He couldn’t say that if Damian had been told before Alfred, Alfred wouldn’t get to grieve at all. Damian wouldn’t care about that, not at the moment. “I knew Tim was awake,” he said. “I thought I would let you sleep a bit longer.”

“Tt,” Damian spat. “I do not care for _sleep_.”

Blah blah superior genetics blah; Dick had heard it before and tonight was _not_ the night for it. “It doesn’t matter,” Dick said. “Bruce is dead, and you will both get your chance to say goodbye. Alone, if you want. But I will _not_ have you fighting. Not tonight. Do you hear me?”

He could hear the anger bleeding into his voice. He hadn’t meant to get angry, let alone show it. Too late now. He’d just have to do a better job in future.

Damian nodded reluctantly. He felt more than saw Tim step away from his backwards-stretched arm.

Crisis averted. Temporarily.

“Which of you wants to go downstairs first?” Dick asked.

“I will,” Damian said, tone daring any of them to disagree.

“Fine. I trust you can behave yourself with Alfred?”

“Tt. What do you take me for, Grayson?”

_A spoiled ten-year-old who’s never lost anyone before._ He didn’t say that. He didn’t need Damian angrier than he already was. “Downstairs, Damian,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle. “You’re not the only one who needs time to grieve.”

Damian slammed the door on his way out, so hard a stack of papers fell off Tim’s desk and slithered all over the floor. Tim didn’t seem to notice, but there was a terrible blankness in his eyes Dick didn’t like the look of one bit. He gently put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. Maybe the contact would help. Hopefully. There wasn’t much more he could do.

“He can’t be gone,” Tim said quietly. “Not him too.”

Kon, Dick thought, squeezing Tim’s shoulders a little tighter. And Bart, and Jack Drake. “I know. It’s not fair. I’m sorry, Tim.”

“I want to see him.”

That, at least, wasn’t said in a dead tone. There was real fire to the words. And if anything, it worried Dick even more. “You might want to wait until Damian’s calmed down a little,” he advised. 

Tim stiffened under his grip. “Why? Damian doesn’t own Bruce. He knows him less than any of us. Bruce knows _him_ least. Why should I be the one who has to wait?”

“For my sake, then?” Dick asked, desperate. He couldn’t do this tonight, he really couldn’t. “I couldn’t bear it if you two started to fight over his body.”

That seemed to work, because Tim relaxed a hair. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Then I’m going in whether he likes it or not.”

“That’s all I ask,” Dick said. It was a good ten minutes more than Dick himself had, and more than Alfred was getting, but this would be a bad time to point it out. It was going to be on them to set a good example for the younger two. They were the adults in this situation here, and Tim was already more grown-up than any sixteen-year-old should be. More experienced with loss and grief.

Less experienced with younger siblings, though, and it sat wrong with Dick to ask Tim to get along with Damian when Damian had tried to kill him.

They were his responsibility now. Both of them, just the same.

 

—

 

There was one last person to notify. It couldn’t wait. Dick left Damian in the Batcave destroying training dummies, and Tim bent over his computer researching furiously (in a different room, naturally), and headed out into Gotham just as the sun came up.

He’d considered going as Nightwing for this, but ultimately decided against it. It wasn’t something to say vigilante-to-vigilante. Though Jason was a little better off these days, he still wasn’t the most stable person Dick knew, and the Red Hood was more likely to shoot at Nightwing over the bad news than Jason was at Dick.

This might send him right back over the mental edge, Dick knew. Jason loved Bruce. Jason loved Bruce more than he loved anyone else except, perhaps, the late Catherine Todd, loved Bruce almost beyond reason. Dick couldn’t keep it from him.

Dick checked Jason’s closest safehouse, then the next-closest. He wasn’t in either. Growing concerned, not just for Jason but for Tim and Damian back at the manor with only Alfred to manage them in their grief, Dick pressed on. Jason would never forgive him if he wasn’t told, and soon.

The third safehouse Bruce had listed was close to Crime Alley, and its security measures were cranked up to the max. Nothing Dick couldn’t deal with, but he didn’t want to break in. Instead, he rang the buzzer.

There was a long delay, and then the words _the fuck do you want?_ rasped out of the speaker. It sounded like he’d woken Jason up. That, or the speaker was just that bad. Either was possible.

“Can I come up?” Dick asked. “It’s important.”

The pause that followed was so long Dick nearly gave up and headed over to the fire escape. Better he broke in than left Jason ignorant. He’d just made the decision when there was a curt _fine_ and the click of the security door opening.

Dick climbed the four flights of stairs to Jason’s apartment, where his brother was waiting at his door, clad in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, gun in hand. “What is it?” Jason asked.

“Can I come in?” Dick countered. “This isn’t a doorstep conversation. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

“Fine,” Jason said, and sidled away slightly, inviting him in by implication. He didn’t put the gun down. It was to see whether Dick would allow Jason, armed, behind him, Dick knew. Without hesitation, because Jason would see and judge hesitation, Dick stepped inside. As soon as he’d crossed the threshold, Jason slammed the door shut behind him.

“Jason, I - I don’t quite know how to say this -“

“Spit it out or get lost,” Jason said. “I was sleeping.”

Maybe Dick really did need that BRUCE IS DEAD sign. He wondered how many times he’d have to say it. “It’s about Bruce,” he said. “He - he’s been killed. Bruce is dead.”

Jason froze. Not a muscle twitched, not even the finger lying across the trigger of his weapon. Dick readied himself to dodge. “What did you say?” he demanded, deadly, low.

“Bruce is dead,” Dick replied. “Superman brought his body back to the cave. He’s gone.”

Unlike Tim and Damian, Jason wasn’t the sort to deny it. “How?” he demanded. Dick kept a careful eye on the gun.

“Darkseid,” Dick said. “Some sort of beam weapon, right through his chest. It wasn’t drawn out. He didn’t suffer.”

No movement, no response. Dick could think of nothing so much as a fuse burning low. Sooner or later there would be an explosion, and Dick didn’t know how big the bomb was yet. With Jason, though, the explosions were never small. He itched to offer comfort, a hug, _something_ , but that wasn’t Jason’s style. That sort of thing might set Jason off. So he waited.

At last, Jason said, “Get out.”

That was it? That couldn’t be right. Jason must be hurt. “Jason -“

“Get. Out.”

“No, Jason, listen -“

“Get out!” Jason shouted, raising the gun. “Get out or I will shoot you in the face, I swear to god! None of your bullshit, just - get out!”

Knowing when to cut his losses had never been Dick’s strong suit, but this time…first Tim, then Damian, now Jason. Three strikes for three younger brothers. He was done for the night, and he had a father to bury. “Fine,” he said, defeated. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

The gun stayed trained on Dick’s head. There was something ugly in Jason’s eyes, and in the twist of his lips. He should leave well enough alone, but -

“I’ll let you know when the funeral is,” Dick continued.

“ _Go_ ,” Jason snarled.

Dick went.

 

—

 

Last of all, on his way back, he called Babs from the solitude of a Gotham rooftop just after dawn. “I heard,” she said, before Dick could get a word out. “I’m so sorry, Dick.”

“Aren’t we all,” Dick said.

“How did the others take it?”

“Various degrees of badly. Damian probably took it best, of all people. Tim’s in denial, and Jason threatened to kill me, so yeah, a bit of shouting and accusing me of not respecting his position as Bruce’s only _real_ son is looking good by comparison. Have you heard from Cass yet?”

“She’s due to call in three hours. Do you want me to handle it?”

“No,” Dick said. “Bruce was her father too. It should come from one of us. At the moment, that means me."

“Okay. Call me back when you’re done, all right?”

Dick looked out over the city. If you didn’t know what happened on the streets below, you could think for a second that it was peaceful. “We’re going to have a lot to do,” he said.


	2. The Next Few Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that everyone's had a bit longer to get used to the idea...it's not much easier to cope with.

This wasn’t possible. Tim had looked at it from every angle he could think of, and it simply was not possible. Bruce could not be dead.

First, it was statistically absurd. In the past two years, Tim had already lost his father, his stepmother and three of his best friends in the world. Now he was supposed to accept that the universe had taken Bruce away too? No. It was not happening; it could not happen. Life wasn’t fair, but he was sure that it wasn’t _that_ unfair.

Secondly, Bruce himself. Bruce always had a plan. He had plans for just about everything. Darkseid would have to be included in his contingencies. A fake body, a secret mission - Tim just had to check. Thoroughly.

Oh, he’d seen the body still in the medbay. It was convincing. It still couldn’t be _Bruce_. Not really.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said. “Please, I beg you, it is time for you to get off the computer and get some sleep.”

“You’re not telling Dick that,” Tim said absently. He was nearly through the firewall. A few more of those and he’d be into Bruce’s closely-guarded contingency plans. Then he’d know what Bruce had cooked up for this situation. Then he’d know how to help, and how to get Bruce back.

“Master Richard is a grown man undertaking the time-critical task of informing Master Jason of tonight’s events,” Alfred said. Tim glanced backwards; the butler had shadows under his eyes darker than Tim had ever seen. “And he entrusted me with your wellbeing in his absence. Surely this work can be delayed for a short time while you rest.”

“It can’t,” Tim said. “Bruce’s contingency plans aren’t always the safest. What if he needs our help?”

Alfred sighed heavily, pulled up a chair next to Tim, and sat. “Master Timothy. I know this is painful, and I know how you must wish to believe otherwise, but the only help Master Bruce requires of us now is to lay him to rest.”

“No,” Tim snapped. “Bruce wouldn’t die to something like this. He’s alive. He has to be.”

“Very well, Master Timothy. If you insist.”

“You don’t believe it,” Tim said. Firewall down. Next firewall. “You’re just humouring me.”

“Yes,” Alfred said bluntly. “As long as I have known him, he has planned for his own death. I have no doubt that faced with the decision to sacrifice his own life for the Earth’s survival, he would choose to sacrifice himself. His body is in the medical bay, the result of that sacrifice. He is dead, Master Timothy, and that cannot be changed.”

For just a second, Tim believed him. Then he remembered that Bruce being dead was _stupid_. “You’ll see,” he said, and got back to work. Alfred sat next to him for a while, but eventually he got up and left.

Tim lost track of time. Alfred checked on him at some point, saying nothing. He thought he heard Damian come by once and scoff. Other than that he worked through, lost to breaking down Bruce’s security. He couldn’t stop; they could be running out of time.

Some time later, Dick came in, soft footsteps his only warning. “Tim? Tim, it’s nearly noon. Are you going to sleep?”

“Not until I finish this,” Tim said absently. “I have to find Bruce.”

“Tim, you’ve seen Bruce’s body. We know where he is. We know how he is. It’s time for you to get some sleep. Come on.” A warm, calloused hand gripped his shoulder. “Tim, you’re done for tonight.”

He shrugged Dick off without even looking up. “I can’t. Don’t you see? Bruce might be alive!”

Dick didn’t seem to take offence. Nor did he make any sound that would indicate agreement. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim glimpsed him shifting around behind the computer. Then, with a _bzzt_ sound, the screen went totally blank. “It’s time for you to sleep,” Dick said. “At least get something to eat. You’ve been up for at least thirty-six hours. Don’t make me get out the sleeping pills.”

Tim looked up. Dick looked…awful, really. Just as bad as Alfred. The same shadows under his eyes. He wondered how he looked himself. Probably worse. Tim had been working, while Dick had been doing something else. Telling people Bruce was dead. Prematurely, in Tim’s opinion. “He might be alive,” Tim said.

All of a sudden he could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. When _had_ he last slept?

“No, Tim. No, he isn’t. Come on. Bedtime. Let’s go.”

The hand on his shoulder was more insistent this time. Tim let Dick pull him to his feet and then shepherd him over to the cave exit. He was so tired, and he had so much work to do. “Four hours,” he said.

“Six,” Dick replied. “Then you can come back down here.”

“Five.”

“ _Six_ ,” Dick insisted. “It doesn’t have to be sleep, but you do have to rest and eat. Non-negotiable.”

Upstairs was a blur. He passed portraits of Waynes who stared down at him with cold, accusing eyes. Dick tried to talk to him, but the words didn’t register. It didn’t sound like Dick’s heart was in it either. “Here is he,” Dick said wearily when they got to the kitchen. “I had to unplug the main computer to get him to come along.”

“Hrm,” Alfred said, from his position at the stove. There were no fewer than three pans on different burners, and a mountain of dishes was starting to accumulate near the sink. Dick left them to it. _Probably has a hundred more people to tell Bruce is dead_ , Tim thought bitterly. He wanted to protest, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. Besides, Alfred had already proved he wasn’t going to listen.

Within minutes, a plate of fish and salad was set down in front of him. He ate it mechanically, and it tasted like nothing. “We are expecting guests today,” Alfred said. “I would recommend bathing as well as sleeping, Master Timothy.”

He still wasn’t through the last of Bruce’s firewalls. He’d protected his plans well. He nodded along with Alfred’s words, planning the rest of his day.

 

—

 

At this point, Damian did not know what to do. His father was dead. Now what happened to him?

The routine of the previous week was all but destroyed. At this time of day Damian should be training. He had trained all night, though, and he had to admit to a certain amount of tiredness. It would not be wise to exert himself further. This was not a day on which he normally received tutoring, and nor could Damian seem to focus. Pennyworth was in the kitchen, Drake was caught up in his inane denial, and Grayson -

\- Damian _hated_ Grayson right now.

Grayson had taken charge of the manor as if _he_ was Father’s son. He was arranging for the interment of Father’s body. He was spreading the news. He was planning to receive visitors, as if he had the _right_ to invite people in and offer them the use of Damian’s father’s house. He was making arrangements for Bruce Wayne as well as Batman. And worst of all, he had told Damian last. Of everyone in the house, he’d told Damian last. It wasn’t right. _Grayson_ had no right.

The only solution here was to do things himself. Properly.

Damian went back down to the cave. Drake wasn’t there any longer, and he knew Grayson and Pennyworth were still upstairs. That left Damian alone with his father’s body again. He looked smaller this way than Damian used to imagine him. Older. His hair had been starting to turn grey. Damian didn’t know what to think of that. Mother had never described Batman as _old_ or _aging_. 

In truth he didn’t know what to do with a corpse either. Others had handled corpses when Damian lived with his mother. He’d hardly ever seen bodies dead more than a day. 

He was pondering how to arrange for Father’s cremation and a _proper_ funeral (not the circus Grayson would surely arrange for), when he heard people approaching. “Thanks again for letting me in,” a female voice said. It was not a voice Damian recognised.

“You know he cared about you, Selina,” Grayson’s voice replied. “Or if you didn’t, he should’ve let you know. He wouldn’t want you to have to break in to find out what happened to him. I’m just sorry you didn’t hear it from me earlier.”

Selina? Selina Kyle, it had to be. Damian’s mother had told him about _her_. A little. As Damian understood it, Kyle was a simple, petty thief who nevertheless thought herself worthy of a Wayne. What was _she_ doing here? Why had Grayson let _her_ in?

“It’s all right,” Kyle said. “As all right as I can expect, anyway. I’ve known Oracle a long time too, and she said you’d already had to break the news to all your siblings. Including Red Hood.”

“I’m surprised I got through the night uninjured,” Grayson replied. 

They were coming closer. Clearly, Grayson intended to allow that thief all the way into the cave to gawk at Damian’s father’s corpse. Completely and utterly unacceptable. Damian bristled, and braced himself for a fight. The door swung all the way open, and as soon as it did, he said to Kyle, “You may not enter.”

“Damian!” Grayson said, shocked. Behind him, Kyle simply raised an eyebrow.

“You do not belong here,” Damian continued, refusing to budge from the doorway.

“Damian,” Grayson said sternly, “Selina’s here because she cared about Bruce too. I’m not asking you to be best buddies with her, but I am asking you to respect her grief.”

“No,” Damian said. Kyle was calm. The only sign of disquiet were her slightly red-rimmed eyes, as if she’d been crying. His words weren’t affecting her at all. “No, I will not, this - this woman does not belong in this house! She may not come in and ogle him!”

That got a reaction. Finally. Grayson flinched, and Kyle’s mouth twisted. “Ogle,” Kyle said flatly.

“I’m so sorry, Selina.”

“Oracle warned me this might happen.”

“Still.” Grayson frowned. “Damian. We need to talk. In private. Now, please.”

Damian glared at him. “You are not my father. You are not even my father’s son. Do not presume to tell me what to do in my own house.”

“Damian…Damian, please. Step aside and let Selina see him. She needs this as much as you did last night.”

“Liar. I will not allow you, either of you, to disrespect my mother’s relationship with Father. Mother should see him first. Then this harlot, if even then!”

“Harlot,” Kyle repeated, incredulous.

Grayson raised a hand to his forehead, briefly hiding his eyes. “Okay, that’s enough. I asked nicely. Now I’m _telling_ you. We are going to talk, and we’ll be doing it elsewhere, while Selina takes care of what she needs.” 

And before Damian could react, Grayson grabbed him and physically dragged him out of the doorway. Kyle nodded and slipped past them both. Damian struggled, but Grayson held him in a tight, effective pin. He was stronger than Damian, and Damian had to admit, the hold was not applied carelessly. “Let go,” Damian spat, struggling.

“Not until you promise to leave Selina alone,” Grayson said. “If you act like a child throwing a tantrum, I will treat you like a child throwing a tantrum, but if you promise to talk sensibly, I’ll let you go. This is important.”

He couldn’t break out of that hold. How infuriating. “Fine,” Damian said. If Grayson went back on his word, it would be Damian hauling someone around. Kyle, by her ear. How dare she? “I promise.”

Grayson released him. “Okay,” he said. “Damian. I know you love your dad, and you’re not comfortable with the family yet, but you don’t have a monopoly on loving him. We _all_ need time and space to say goodbye. Tim needs it, Alfred needs it, and yes, even Selina needs it. She’s cared about your father for a long time. He cared about her, too, and it is not disrespecting your mother to recognise that.”

_Yes it is_ , Damian thought, but there was a hardness in Grayson’s eyes that suggested he was not open to being convinced on this matter, regardless of its obviousness. “She shouldn’t be here,” he insisted. “She was nothing to Father.”

“Bruce cared about her,” Grayson repeated more slowly, as if Damian was incapable of understanding. Damian understood just fine. But he refused to accept that his father ever cared for someone like _Kyle_. Then Grayson sighed, again as though he were dealing with a child. “Have you contacted your mother yet?”

Damian glared up at him. “I have tried,” he said. It was the first thing he did after leaving Father’s corpse, out of Grayson’s sight. His mother had not answered his sole contact number. “She - I have not been able to.”

“Would you like me to try my contacts? Or get in touch with some of Bruce’s?”

He was doing it again. _Damian_ was his father’s son. Not Grayson. Grayson had no right. “I will do that,” he said. “She’s _my_ mother.”

“I was just offering,” Grayson said. “If you can’t manage it, the offer will stay open. There are people out there who’ll talk to me before they’ll talk to Bruce.”

“If?” Damian snarled. “ _If?_ ” He didn’t bother with further response. Grayson didn’t deserve it.

He was half an hour into his search for his father’s contacts before he realised that Grayson had manipulated him. By now, Kyle would have been and gone.

 

—

 

Cass woke up to the usual sounds of afternoon traffic and the family in the apartment next to hers arguing. Just like the day before, and the day before that. Like nothing had changed. For them, nothing had. For Cass…

Her knuckles hurt and her eyes were itchy and sore. She’d stayed out last night until the sun was almost up, trying to lose herself in work. The video call from Dick had been short. Difficult. When he was done telling her the bad news, he’d asked her, _Will you come home?_

He meant Gotham. She didn’t know.

Gotham wasn’t home to her. One city was much like another, as far as she was concerned. There were buildings. There were people. There was crime. She tried to stop it. She could do that in Gotham or Hong Kong or anywhere. _Bruce_ was home to her, and Bruce was gone. That was not going to change, whether or not she went to the funeral Dick was arranging. She could say her goodbyes from anywhere and it would all be the same to Bruce.

When she’d got back that morning, she’d started filming a report to him, out of habit, before she remembered. On her desk there was a letter she was writing to him, to show him how much she’d learned while she was away. In her head she could see what would have happened - all he would have said was _I got your letter_ , because he did not like to say what he was feeling, but he would have had the letter next to him and handled it with such care Cass could never doubt that _he_ cared. Even if he didn’t say that.

That was how he’d treated her last two letters, so she knew that was how he would have treated this one. Cass’ eyes itched again.

She tried to start a video call with Tim, but he didn’t answer. Then she tried to call Barbara the same way. Barbara answered. Barbara almost always answered. “Cass? How are you going?”

There wasn’t a word big enough for what she felt. There weren’t gestures. “Bad,” she said.

“Us too,” Barbara said. “I’m so sorry.”

“People die. Bruce died doing something good.” Now her eyes itched and her throat felt tight. Death had never made her feel bad this way before. She didn’t feel guilty this time, but sad. Very, very sad. “How is everyone else?”

Cass didn’t know if she could stand to look at them, if they looked anything like Dick looked last night, or how Barbara looked now. They both looked tired. They both looked as sad as Cass felt. Maybe sadder. Barbara had been crying. Cass could see the red around her eyes.

“Under the circumstances?” Barbara sighed. “Badly. Honestly, if you could come back, we’re probably going to need you. Alfred’s managing, but Tim’s - Tim isn’t doing well, according to Dick, I haven’t seen him myself yet. We’re worried about Jason and Damian as well.”

She barely knew Jason or Damian. Bruce had told her a bit about them, Tim and Barbara had told her more. They said very different things. Barbara said they were both angry and both had good reason to be. Tim was wary of Jason and hated Damian. They agreed that Jason and Damian could both be violent sometimes, when they were upset. No wonder Barbara and Dick were worried.

At the same time, she didn’t want to go back to Gotham just to fight with boys who were supposed to be her brothers. If she went back to Gotham she wanted to go so they could all be sad together. And only for that. “I understand,” she said. “I’ll come back. But I won’t fight Jason or Damian.”

Barbara sat up straighter. “That’s not what we want from you,” she said. “We just - we miss you, and we’d like you to be here with us. We’re hoping nobody’s going to be doing any fighting at all.”

Cass looked at Barbara carefully. Barbara was good at lying, but Cass didn’t think she was lying now. That was good. That would hurt a lot. Right now she just wanted to be sad. “I believe you,” she said.

“You want me to book you a ticket back to Gotham?”

She nodded. “As soon as possible.” If she was going back, she didn’t want to wait for it. “Thank you.”

“It’ll be in your email in a few minutes. We’ll see you in a bit more than a day. Dick or I will pick you up.” Because they didn’t want to ask more of Alfred, Cass thought. Alfred would be very sad too.

They said goodbye and ended the call. It was hard. Cass felt very alone. So she turned on some music, which sounded too happy, and started to pack. Not her Black Bat things. She wasn’t going to Gotham to fight. That could all stay here.

She took her letter to Bruce. She’d finish it on the plane and give it to him in person. She thought he would have liked that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience/kudos/bookmarks/comments! I'm writing something more cheerful, I swear.

**Author's Note:**

> So, hello and welcome to another fic! I can't say I think this one will be super happy (I'm working on two things much more cheerful than this), and I expect updates will be irregular. I've been thinking about this one for a while, though, and I want to get it written.
> 
> As always, thanks everyone for your kudos, bookmarks, comments, or just for reading the story!


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